


i'll be your man (if you've got love to get done)

by constellationsofsentences



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Morons Being Morons, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Not Beta Read, Post-Season/Series 01, idk man its just a lot of my thoughts about the show put together, thats it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-05-07 05:11:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19202563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/constellationsofsentences/pseuds/constellationsofsentences
Summary: A peculiar thing about love: it can creep up on you. This is precisely what happened to Aziraphale. There was no swelling of violins, no choir of cherubim (although he supposedthatwould have been quite ironic). There was just Crowley, looking at him, and Aziraphale realised he had the awful desire to lookback.





	i'll be your man (if you've got love to get done)

**Author's Note:**

> It's implied in this fic that they didn't actually body swap and that it really was the greying of their auras that allowed them to survive their respective tortures, but it's not a major plot point. mostly, this is just me imagining a season 2 that is just several hours of mutual pining before a nice get-together with lots of emotional violin. 
> 
> also there's a terrible gcse biology reference down there somewhere. sorry. i thought it was funny at the time but you're totally welcome to hate it.
> 
>  
> 
> title from no plan by hozier

A peculiar thing about love: it can creep up on you. This is precisely what happened to Aziraphale. There was no swelling of violins, no choir of cherubim (although he supposed that would have been quite ironic). There was just Crowley, looking at him, and Aziraphale realised he had the awful desire to look _back._

Then, it came all at once, a tide of realisation that washed over him completely, terrifyingly, and so unlike anything Aziraphale had ever felt that he had to stop and blink a moment. He thought: _Well. Of course it was Crowley,_ because of course it was. In a way, he supposed, it was always going to be.

This realisation did not make the whole thing any easier. Really, the whole fated, star-crossed part of it, though romantic, made the reality of it so much worse. The whole ordeal made Aziraphale want to stop and pause and sigh. He wouldn’t lament, because he wasn’t _upset_ about it. To say so would be unkind and also a lie. He was mostly bemused.

He had always been a little in awe of Crowley. It was stranger now that he realised why that was. Crowley winked at him, called him “Angel”, the same as he always did. It was all horribly unfair, he thought.

After the End Times, things got roughly back to normal. If anything could be normal after what had happened, after Aziraphale discovered that he had been so thoroughly muddied that he could barely be considered an angel any longer. They were their own sort now.

Aziraphale had once thought that there was a stark difference between angel and demon. Now, he realised it was more like a sliding scale, that he and Crowley had slipped along and, eventually, met in the middle.

The other angels would leave him alone now, he hoped. He had eternity with Crowley.

If only Crowley loved him back, said an annoyingly persistent voice in his head, however much he told himself he didn’t mind. He’d been friends with Crowley for six thousand years. Crowley didn’t need to love him.

Which wasn’t to say that he wasn’t certain Crowley didn’t love him somewhat, at least partially. Just not in the transcendental, earth-shattering way Aziraphale did.

It was better to let things like that sit, he thought. Eternity was a long time. If Crowley left, now, he shouldn’t have anything any more, and that would be an awful shame.

 

Anathema Device had somehow become a coffee buddy of Crowley’s. Aziraphale wasn’t sure how _that_ had happened, only that it had, and now every Tuesday Crowley disappeared off to Tadfield in his infernal car. Most days, he stayed the night on Aziraphale’s sofa. Every Tuesday, though, he stayed with her, and apparently, the Witchfinder boy who had managed to woo her, although, according to Crowley: “He’s got about as much sexual prowess as a worm.”

Aziraphale was starting to hate Tuesdays. Which wasn’t to say he was _jealous,_ exactly. Crowley could do what he liked, and Aziraphale knew he should have no problem with that, that he _could_ have no problem with that, because he and Crowley were not involved beyond the platonic.

It was only this: he would look around his little flat above the bookshop on a Tuesday morning, full of all the excitements that Tuesdays bring (although, really, he’s not sure there are many), and see Crowley’s coat draped over a chair, or a pair of Crowley’s glasses on the coffee table, but no Crowley. He would see a mug that Crowley had used for breakfast that morning (black coffee, only), and the last dregs of coffee that had been discarded as he disappeared off to go drink other coffee with somebody else.

One day, Crowley saw him looking resentfully at the coffee remains as he shrugged on his coat, later than usual to depart. “What’s got you so... _forlorn_ , Aziraphale?” he asked.

“Oh!” Aziraphale said. “Just… no matter. Don’t worry about me, Crowley.”

Crowley blinked. “If you wanted me to put them in the dishwasher, you could have told me. I only thought you could miracle them.” He looked, if it was possible, a little sheepish.

“No, that’s not a problem. There’s nothing that’s a problem, my dear. Don’t worry about me, I told you.” He put the coffee cup down carefully.

Crowley looked at him again. He rolled his eyes a little, which Aziraphale would have found bemusing, before, but now just made him fond. And slightly embarrassed. “Come with me,” Crowley said.

“Pardon?”

“Come to Tadfield. With me.” He went a little pink as he said it. Aziraphale, if he was not already thoroughly in love, would have fallen in love upon seeing that face.

“Well,” said Aziraphale. “If you insist.”

 

Aziraphale had decided somewhere in the middle of saving the world that he thoroughly liked Anathema Device. He liked most people, of course, but there is a difference between liking somebody and _thoroughly_ liking them. For example, he liked Anathema’s boyfriend well enough, although he was mostly hiding in the bedroom throughout their first post-world-saving meeting, and seemed the sort of person to read terrible romance novels which he would squirrel away unconvincingly upon the approach of people. However, he thoroughly liked Anathema, mostly because she wore sensible shoes and he thought it very admirable that she had burnt the new prophecy book, although he was a little upset he hadn’t gotten a peek at them beforehand. He understood her reasoning, though. She was sensible, that was undeniable.

She said, “Well, thank you for coming,” which was a very formal and unpromising beginning, and made him shift uncomfortably in his seat.

“Well, of course,” he said. “I wanted to thank you for saving the world.”

She beamed. “That wasn’t all us, of course.”

“It was mostly you,” said Crowley.

Things got better after that. Crowley had an easy way of talking to her that seemed to keep everything bobbing along happily, and by the time Aziraphale had brought out the present he had brought (a rather lovely bottle of wine he had been saving for a rainy day) everything was going rather swimmingly.

Even the boyfriend surfaced, however tentative. He accepted the (overfull, because Crowley was generous when he was drunk and was also an incredible lightweight) glass of wine deposited into his hands with a bemused expression.

“What was your name, again?”

“Newton,” he said. “Newton Pulsifer.”

“Oh! Like Adultery Pulsifer?”

“Yes,” he said, carefully. “He was my great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather. Well, I might’ve gotten the ‘greats’ wrong. I always forget how many there are.”

“He burned _my_ great-great-whatever grandmother at the stake,” said Anathema, cheerfully. She raised her glass, as if in a toast to good old Adultery.

Aziraphale didn’t know what to say to that.

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said, seeing the stricken expression on his face. “She blew them both up before any actual _burning_ could happen.”

Aziraphale _really_ didn’t know what to say to that.  Agnes Nutter’s name had clearly echoed her personality at least a little. He turned to Crowley, whose eyes were full of mirth. “Don’t question it, I’d say, angel.”

That was another thing, to return to the earlier subject of discussion. Crowley was always calling him _angel_. Aziraphale wasn’t sure why it affected him so deeply. It was factual, of course, but there was something else there. The other angels called him that all the time. People called him an angel as well, although this tended to happen less and less as the country as a whole became determined not to show emotion.

When the other angels called him an angel, they did so only because it was what he was, because it was his job. (Sandalphon, horrified: “What sort of an angel are you?” Or, Gabriel, years ago, before the whole Antichrist debacle: “You are exactly the sort of angel we need up here,” – a sentiment Aziraphale couldn’t imagine him repeating anytime soon.) “When strangers said it, taking his face in both hands and declaring: “You, sir, are an angel!”, it was generally because he had helped them in some way, either by carrying their groceries or giving them some money for a bus. ‘Angel’ for them functioned only as a synonym for ‘good person’. Unless you were in church, he supposed.

But when Crowley said it, “angel” did not mean “angel” _._ Instead, it meant something Aziraphale couldn’t quite puzzle out. Something too large, too loaded with meaning for him to completely understand.

Aziraphale blinked. Anathema was looking at him with some sort of thin suspicion. Aziraphale smiled his best smile. She said, “Do you know I always carry a knife?”

Well. There wasn’t much to say to that. He wasn’t sure if she was just drunk and oversharing, or if she was threatening him for some unknown reason. “Oh?” he said. “What sort of knife?”

She blinked. “A knife sort of knife.”

He felt a little bit stupid. “Yes, well, one would hope so, wouldn’t they?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Crowley. They were friends, of course, but Aziraphale knew he often did unkind things like point out Aziraphale’s foolishness because he was a demon and demons did that sort of thing. Also, Aziraphale probably would have done the same to him. Maybe it wasn’t just a demon thing.

“Oh,” he said. “Nothing, I suppose.”

“I’m glad you have a knife, Anathema,” declared Crowley. “You never know when you might need one. Very useful.”

Aziraphale chuckled nervously. “Crowley, my dear…” he began, but stopped before going further because he had realised that what he had about to say was rather foolish. Crowley fixed him with an affectionate glare.

“Aziraphale, _my dear,_ we should be going soon. I’d like to get back before it gets dark, and things.”

It _was_ getting rather late. “Alright,” said Aziraphale, and set about sobering up. The boyfriend (Newton, Aziraphale ought to start referring to him as, he supposed) continued to look startled. His mouth opened and closed like a fish. Aziraphale thought it was rather funny.

“What?” said Crowley. “Your girlfriend’s a witch, you’ve met the Antichrist, but you can’t handle a little miracle?” He laughed a little as if to indicate that his comment, though rude, was not meant to offend.

“No, I only–” Newton began. He stopped. “I’m sorry,” he said. “This is all very new for me.”

Crowley laughed a little.

“Well,” said Aziraphale. “Ta-ta.”

“ _Ta-ta_?” snorted Crowley. Aziraphale elbowed him in the ribs and swept graciously from the room.

 

“If you’re not going to slow down,” said Aziraphale (although cried is perhaps the more accurate word), “would you at least turn down this music? I think my ears might explode.”

“More likely,” said Crowley, for the sake of argument, “they would _im_ plode.” He obliged, though. The car swung dangerously to the right as he reached with one hand for the volume controls. Aziraphale felt he was sitting practically horizontal in his seat. He moaned, to express his desire not to be discorporated any time soon, especially given the current animosity towards him in heaven.

In response, Crowley said, “Yeah, yeah,” and then, “Whatever,” but he slowed down a tiny bit, enough that the reading could be shown on the speedometer once more.

Aziraphale was touched. He smiled at Crowley, feeling the love bubbling up. He felt certain the whole thing was written all over his face.

“Stop looking at me like that,” said Crowley, something thick in his voice. “I’m not an _angel_.”

Here was his answer. Crowley knew, and Crowley did not feel the same. Crowley did not want Aziraphale to look at him, to love him. He tried to hide the disappointment, reminded himself that he had already known this. At least he hadn’t been _disgusted,_ or anything.

 “Neither am I,” said Aziraphale, because he was too busy feeling sorry for himself to think about what he was saying.

“Well,” said Crowley, pointedly not looking at Aziraphale, “we haven’t really talked about that.”

“About what?” Aziraphale asked.

“The _going native_ thing.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. “Well, let’s not start now.”

“Aziraphale…”

“It’s quite alright, my dear. I’m perfectly fine,” he said. His voice wavered slightly at the end. Aziraphale wished he were a better actor.

“You’re not very convincing, Aziraphale,” said Crowley. He was still not looking at Aziraphale, which made the whole thing rather disconcerting.

“Mr Crowley,” said Aziraphale, although the formality made his tongue feel huge and uncomfortable, “I am quite fine. I just don’t particularly want to talk about this, that is all.”

He straightened his tie. Looked ahead. He didn’t sneak any glances at Crowley, although if he had, he would have been unable to figure out the emotions covering his face, anyway.

 

When we are talking about angels, it is important to remember that they are not very good at strong emotion. The demons can do it, fine enough, but that is because things like passion and lust and desire tend to land humans in hell. This is an unfortunate truth to have to share with you, my dear reader of this story, but it is and always has been the truth that humans that are in love often do very terrible things because of it. Maybe you already knew that, reader. Maybe you have done something terrible for a loved one, and you understand my meaning.

There is one emotion the angels are truly fans of, and that is hope, because it is, in their opinion, pure, and all that nonsense. Even then, most of them are not very good at feeling that, because their belief in the Divine Plan means they are certain everything will always work out just the way they want, forever and always.

Aziraphale had never been a very good angel, and he wasn’t one any more, of course, but he hadn’t much experience with love all the same. No matter how long he had been in love with Crowley (over 6,000 years, his subconscious told him, but this was an idea that made him quiet and a little sad), he didn’t really have any idea how to go about _knowing_ about it. So he didn’t do anything, really. Just carried on working on his bookshop and pretending he thought of Crowley only as a friend. He watched game shows with Crowley on Saturday nights, and on Sundays, they drove out of London and Crowley annoyed store managers into giving them discounts on lavender bags and kitschy candles. They went to ancient haunted castles and made friends with ghosts or poked fun at them when Crowley was in a bad mood.

They didn’t talk about the Apocalypse-That-Wasn’t, at least beyond jokes like Crowley referring to it as the ‘Notpocalypse’ (although really, if they were including all the other apocalypses the humans had been worried about throughout the years, it would, in fact, be Notpocalypse #3409). Aziraphale wasn’t sure if he wanted to talk about it, only that he was afraid of talking about his feelings with Crowley at the moment. He took Crowley to lunch and tried _fusion_ cuisine for the first time, and Crowley sat and watched him with an unreadable expression and said nothing.

“My dear,” said Aziraphale, “you look terribly glum.”

“Well, there’s nothing the matter,” said Crowley, in a way that indicated that there definitely was something the matter. “And if there _was,_ it wouldn’t be any of your business, anyway.”

“Are you sure? Only I don’t want you to be upset. We mustn’t … it would be terrible if you began to isolate yourself.”

“Jesus, Aziraphale,” said Crowley, “I told you there’s nothing the matter.”

Clearly, there was something the matter.

“Mr Crowley, my dear–”

“Angel.” Crowley folded his arms and looked pointedly at the limp prawn on Aziraphale’s plate. It did not look quite as inviting as it had a moment ago. He ate it anyway, forlorn because it was almost as cold as Crowley’s expression.

Once it was gone, Crowley nodded. “Let’s go, then.”

Aziraphale nearly objected. They hadn’t had any pudding, after all.

 

Crowley didn’t come into the bookshop that night.

 

“I’m in love,” Aziraphale told Madame Tracy.

“Oh, how lovely,” she said, setting down the kettle with a smile. “Who’s the lucky – _ah_ – person?”

Aziraphale smiled at her as she reached over to begin pouring his drink. “Let me, my dear. Do you remember Mr Crowley?”

“With the glasses? And the flames? Thank you, love.”

He passed her a cup, and she inhaled brightly.

“It’s him.”

“Oh! Well, he’s very lucky. Have you told him yet?”

Straightening the table cloth, not looking at her, he said: “No.”

“Well, you ought to. He seems like a nice sort of fellow. A bit _shouty_ , but I suppose you have to be when you’re fighting the Apocalypse.”

“That’s all very well, but some things have happened that mean we’re sort of… on our own. And I worry…”

She gave him a look. It was rather frightening, given the amount of pink lipstick she was wearing. “Don’t be so _silly_ , Mr Aziraphale. He’s been your only companion for _how long?_ ”

He told her.

“Well, I don’t believe six thousand years of friendship could be destroyed that easily. From what you’ve told me, you’ve gotten over worse.”

Six thousand years. Six thousand years, and what had he to show for it? Unrequited love and no more family. For the angels, as distant as they had been, had been his family. The only one he was ever going to get, and he had lost it. Here he was, stranded on Earth with a heart that wouldn’t do what he wanted and nobody who gave a single––But that wasn’t true. Even if he never spoke to another angel again, he’d have Crowley. Six thousand years of friendship didn’t last for just anybody.

Maybe he could do it, after all.

 

He went to see Anathema, first. He wasn’t sure why. As he stepped off the bus into Tadfield, he had the horrible suspicion that Crowley might be there. He took his time, therefore, hoping to catch sight of the Bentley when it roared down one of these winding lanes.

It was here that he stumbled upon the boy who had been the Antichrist.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, “hello.”

The boy who had been the son of Satan looked up at him. He was accompanied by his friends, two boys and a girl. They had been there when it happened, he remembered. Now, they all had ice-creamy faces and jovial smiles, the sort that were wonderfully infectious.

“Mr Aziraphale. Is something the matter?”

“Nothing to worry about, my dear boy. Personal problems, you know.” He did his best relaxed smile, but the children narrowed their eyes.

“My mummy says it’s not good to lie,” said one of his friends, the boy not coated in ice-cream. Wensleydale. “She says it will get me in _big_ trouble, one of these days.”

“Yes, exactly,” said the girl. “Lying is pretty toxic, you know. That’s what _my_ mum says.”

“And no fun,” interjected the last. “No fun at all.”

Adam nodded sagely. “So, what’s the problem, then?” At his feet, his dog barked what felt to Aziraphale like an encouragement.

“I’m in love,” said Aziraphale, startled at how easily they had wheedled the truth out of him.

“Well,” said Adam. “That’s not a problem _at all_ , then, is it? That’s just happy. Come on, guys. We have a game to play.”

 “I thought it would be something _exciting_ ,” complained one.

“Like another apocalypse?” said the girl. “Come _on._ ”

“I suppose it isn’t a problem,” he said, watching them leave, a chorus of whispers and laughter and wellies. The lane was empty and his heart was filled with emotion. “It’s just love.”

It was just love. But love was not _just_ anything. His love for Crowley was so big he felt it could probably swallow him whole. Maybe it would. Maybe, he would tell Crowley and it would go badly and the emotion of it would envelop him, digest him. Phagocytosis of the heart.  But maybe it would swallow Crowley too. Maybe Crowley would say: “Yes,” and then Aziraphale’s love would surround them both, a bubble of happiness and joy. Maybe Crowley would even have some love of his own.

There were so many _maybe_ s. Was it worth it? Aziraphale got back on the bus.

 

Crowley was sitting in the bookshop’s little back room. He’d perched on the sofa like he wasn’t sure he was welcome and was tapping agitatedly on his knee. His glasses had been set on the coffee table, upside down.

“Aziraphale,” he said.

“Crowley,” replied Aziraphale. He took a few deep breaths.

“I didn’t know where you were.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, “I was out.”

Crowley nodded, didn’t speak. Neither did Aziraphale. The _maybe_ s stretched out before him, beyond the horizon into the darkness beyond.

He sat down, at the same time as Crowley moved to stand up.

“Oh,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale said: “I went to see Anathema, but I ran into Adam before I got there.” He was rather proud of the nonchalance with which he said it.

“Still destroying the world?”

“I… no.”

Crowley smiled. He said something, quietly, that Aziraphale could not hear. Then: “Listen. Aziraphale – angel, we need to talk.”

Aziraphale agreed, quietly, tentatively. “I have some things to say, Crowley.”

“Oh. Well, go ahead.”

“No, no, my dear, after you.”

“Don’t be stupid,” said Crowley. “You go first, angel.”

“My dear boy,” said Aziraphale. “ _You_ go first.”

Crowley said: “Alright. Well, since we went native… we only have each other, right? And I don’t want… I don’t want you to feel isolated. I wanted to tell you… you don’t have to stay. You know that, right? You’re not… bound to me, angel.”

Aziraphale felt a little stunned. This had not been one of his _maybe_ s. “Do you want me to? I will if you ask.”

“I’m not _asking_ , don’t be… no. I’m just saying, you could. If you wanted.”

“Why would I want to?” asked Aziraphale, relieved. “Crowley. Why?”

“I don’t know,” said Crowley. “If you got bored… if you thought I was too much. You don’t have to stay. There’s no obligation. That’s what I wanted to say.”

Aziraphale almost laughed. “Mr Crowley,” he said. “And I thought I was the foolish one.”

“What?”

And so, Aziraphale said it. Those words that defined the first six thousand years of his life, whether he knew it or not. The words that would define the next six thousand years, and the six thousand after that. _I love you._

Crowley only said, “Oh.”

“You don’t have to say anything, my dear. I only…”

“Angel,” said Crowley, “please. Be quiet.”

 

They drove out in the Bentley the next day, up to some castle in Wales Aziraphale wanted to explore. Crowley drove, like always, but he slowed a little when Aziraphale asked. He didn’t play music.

Between their chairs, their hands brushed.

Aziraphale smiled.

Together, they hurried into the rest of their lives.

**Author's Note:**

> yeah, i'm on tumblr [@hamletfucks](http://hamletfucks.tumblr.com)


End file.
